Jurassic Park - InGen's Redemption
by WonWon101
Summary: Several years have passed since InGen's failed attempt to reclaim the animals they have created. In the threat of bankruptcy and competition from other venturous companies taking advantage of the sites, they have decided to re-initiate Plan B. Doesn't include any characters in Michael Crichton's novels Jurassic Park and The Lost World.
1. Chapter 1

InGen's Redemption

Jurassic Park

Of all it's time in service, the San Francisco Superior Court had not witnessed a case as incongruous as the infamous "InGen Incident" in August 1989. 15,000 reporters and members of the public were standing outside the Court's doors, eager to hear what successful businessman John Parker Hammond had to say. But the multi-billion-dollar bioengineering company was firmly sworn to secrecy and the case was conducted behind closed doors. During its crisis, InGen filed for Chapter 11 protection with signed agreements from all parties and consortia involved, who had no comment to offer to the public. That wasn't to say, however, that there wasn't any leakage. Even the White House couldn't keep a lid firmly sealed on private information. And especially a secret enterprise such as "Jurassic Park", which cost InGen four billion dollars in damages, could not remain hidden for long from such a demanding public. The people needed to know.

On January 5th, 1997, almost ten years after the accident, InGen announced the retirement of John Hammond, who after fifty years of entrepreneurship, happily claimed his resignation. InGen promised they would focus their research into nanotechnology. Of course, this was a pretence. InGen was too sly and rapacious to give up the opportunity of leading such a large enterprise to competitors.

Chapter 1 Things That Go Bump in The Night

"Oh God," Joe Anderson said, staring out the window of his bungalow.

"What is it, hon?" His wife, Kate, asked, moving into the kitchen.

"It's still raining."

Kate made a face of annoyance, but said nothing.

Unbeknownst to the average simmered-down tourist, the equatorial coastal villages of Costa Rica were notorious for periods of terrible weather. Of the past week spent in Parismina, a village on the Caribbean coast, it had rained practically every day. And the weather was torrential. So many of their plans had to be cancelled or postponed.

Joe sat down next to his wife.

"Listen Kate, if it continues like this-"

"Enough, Joe, I don't want to hear it. We've been through this; we're going together."

Her words detonated a silence in the room. Joe could hear the rain hammering against the window, the dull wet gurgle of forming mud. He thought about the week before, when Kate and he had been excited about organizing a vacation to Costa Rica. It was smack-bang on the equator, and Joe was looking forwards to the warm nights, the cool beer and the beach. The first couple of days were good; the sun was shining, the beaches were swarmed with people, bars were open twenty-four hours a day. But, as it turned out, Costa Rica was in for a rough week, as a storm that developed up in Quintana Roo had decided to swing south towards the Caribbean Coast, consequently spoiling any plans they had for the week. So, most of the time was spent indoors, huddled together watching TV or in bed, reading. Sometimes Kate would go out to market to browse for anything of interest. She'd brought a couple of things home; a hand-crafted trinket made of sea-shell, and a pretzel-shaped amulet meant to be worn around the neck. Kate had said the locals called it " _Pura Vida_ ", which literally translated meant "pure life", or "enjoy life".

 _It's a good luck charm,_ she'd said, when she came home after the first day it rained. They'd had little luck so far.

But despite everything the weather had thrown at them, Kate was adamant about the trip to one of the several offshore islands. It was their ideal tropical getaway, just the two of them, together, spending time in each-other's embrace underneath the orange glow of setting sun, drinking expensive champagne and exotic foods. They'd leave for San Jose airport early in the morning and fly to Santa Cruz, where they would take a helicopter directly to the island. But what with the storm, the dream of this tropical paradise was tragically fading fast. Persuading Kate to give it up was an incredibly stupid thing to do. She'd organized most of the trip, and was determined to have her way. Arguing with her was as pointless as trying to reason with an aggravated bull.

"Joe? What was that?" Kate said.

"What was what?"

"That noise. Didn't you hear it?"

"No," Joe looked at his wife. "What's the matter?"

"Never mind, I must be hearing things."

Kate looked concerned and a bit worried, and she had the right to be. Last year a magnitude 7.8 earthquake had hit Los Angeles, and Kate was right on the epicentre. She'd come home in such a state that Joe had taken her to see a doctor. _It's common in most people who've been in a large earthquake. She'll be fine, after a few days,_ he said. Despite the doctor's vagueness, Kate did eventually regain her strength, and she said she was fine, but Joe could tell that the earthquake wouldn't leave her conscious for a long time to come. Every occasionally, he'd seen her gripping the edge of the sofa, her eyes wide and distant, seemingly entranced by fear. At times, she would impulsively dart under the table, when there was no earthquake at all.

"There it is again." Kate said, with growing concern perceivable in her voice.

Joel heard it too. A deep, long single thrum. Then silence again. He looked out the window.

"It must be thunder hon," He said, though he wasn't sure it was.

Suddenly, a loud crash from outside; a tumble of leaves against the window. The impact caused the table to rock slightly. Joe caught the glint of something outside in the moonlight.

"What the hell was that?" Kate said, getting up from the table.

"It's probably the storm. I'll check outside."

"No, you're staying here," Kate said firmly. "We'll call the fire station."

"The town doesn't have one, hon. I'll only be a minute-"

"You're staying here."

Joe obeyed her. He noticed the rain had picked up and was now pounding against the roof, and he cringed at the sound of leaking water in the bedroom upstairs. They'd had trouble getting the ceiling fixed, and as a compromise they were sleeping in the lounge, on the fold-out beds of the couches. The builder was coming tomorrow. Another thrum. This time it was louder, and the lights flickered slightly. _An earthquake?_ Joe wondered, looking out into the night sky.

A fourth thrum. Then a fifth. Their Mercedes Benz E-Class rental went off, filling the intermittent silence. Joe could see the reflection of the rear lights flashing in the window, providing a better view into the night. He couldn't see much on the ground, it was fine; there were no cracks or bare electric wires anywhere. The bungalow was situated on a levelled hill populated with palm fronds and short grass, which acted as boundaries for privacy from the neighbouring houses. From here Joe could only see as far as the closest neighbouring house, which he could see the roof-wait, no, something was blocking it. It was a tree, with thick pebbled bark-a palm tree, perhaps, although the trunk was oddly much larger. And there were three distinctive roots bare to the earth, with strange conical ends. And, to his surprise, there lay a second trunk, of almost the same size, several meters from the first, again with three roots. The trunks were so tall that Joe couldn't see the tops at all from the window. That was when he realised he was looking at the picture wrong.

Excitement, fear, and confusion hit him all at once. Memories from his childhood flashed before his eyes. Time stopped.

"Oh sweet Jesus, could it be?" he gasped, unable to fathom the creature before him.

"What's wrong?" Kate said, now standing by his side.

Joe blinked. Through the glass, only a few yards away from him was a monster. A forty-foot, terrifying cold-blooded lizard monster. Or rather, the feet of one. What he thought were roots were actually three giant toes, tipped with deadly claws, which looked sharp enough to tear right through a man from head to toe. The thick pebbled bark was scales.

"Please tell me that isn't what I think it is," He said, his voice coming out thin and raspy with fear.

"What are you talking about?"

His eyes were glued to the window. He couldn't move at all; he was frozen in place; his muscles wouldn't respond. He realised his jaw was slack, and he was holding his breath.

"Joe?"

Kate's voice sounded blurred, as if it was from another universe. The mighty foot took a lunge towards the house, causing the walls and ceiling to shake soon after it made contact again with the earth. Joel quivered with fright. _Holy shit, it's right beside the house,_ he thought.

"Joe!"

Joe tried to respond, but found his voice was dead dry. He closed it and tried to wet it with saliva, but none would come. He felt sudden pain in his left shoulder-Kate had punched him. The pain brought him back to his senses. He felt a profound confidence surge through him. He turned to face his wife.

"I'm going outside."

"No, Joe-"

"I'm going, Kate." He looked at her with stern eyes.

"Then I'm going with you."

"The hell you are. Stay here."

"Don't order me about! How dare you-"

Joe put his hands forcefully on his wife's shoulders.

"Stay here."

Kate looked angry and confused, but obeyed. He decided he wouldn't tell her until he made sure that what he saw was real.

He looked back to the window. Beyond the sheet of rain, amongst the tropical brush, he could see the front foot was now lightly raking the ground with its claws, making trails in the mud. The second foot remained where it was.

Joe turned to his wife. "Stay here and be quiet. I'll only be a second."

He made sure he left before his wife could say anything.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Kate Anderson said aloud.

Her husband's behaviour was not like him at all. When he got back, he had some explaining to do. Why hadn't he responded to her calling his name? What had he seen outside the window that'd made him act the way he did, suddenly grabbing her shoulders and telling her to stay put. Who the hell did he think he was, ordering her about like that? His face was as white as chalk, his eyes as wide as saucepans. What had he seen? Kate looked outside the window.

The Mercedes had stopped wailing and so had its rear lights; Joe had obviously turned off the alarm. Outside, in the rain, everything seemed normal. The grass was a bit loose in some areas, but that was okay because the soil wasn't particularly thick and the rain always made a quick job of turning it into mud. She heard movement around the side of the house. She went to the adjacent living room, which had a great view of the coast below, a view that was now obscured by low clouds. All that Kate could see was the close-cut patch of lawn and the dark outline of the Mercedes.

Kate stood there, looking out the window, into the rain, wondering what on earth her husband had seen that made him look so frightened.

She waited for two long minutes, physically unable to sit down at the kitchen table to finish her coffee, which she knew had already gone cold. The rain continued to hammer against the house. Kate clenched her fists in anger. The rain drove her crazy. So far it had ruined nearly all her carefully scrutinized plans. At least they had the trip to Europe next year to look forward to.

Kate relished the thought of Europe. She thought about how promising it was in both indoor and outdoor activities, about the different languages and cultures, the exotic foods, historically famous places, luxurious five-star hotels booked the whole way around. She thought of it often, and had unfortunately become more and more frequent as the rainy days went by. It became so frequent that it crossed her mind at least twice each day. The days were long; the rain was persistent. Nothing could drive her crazier.

She looked at her watch. 12.20 a.m. _Jesus Christ, it's midnight,_ she thought. Kate felt her eyes heavy in their sockets, as though her body had suddenly decided to be tired only until she found out how late it was. Where was Joe? Wouldn't he be back by now? He should be back by now. She went back to the kitchen window, suppressing a yawn with the back of her hand. At least she'd deferred it until a later time, when it would be harder to put off. Nothing was different outside; the rain was still as annoying as ever, the thick, pulpy mud continued to bubble and gurgle, the trees were swaying violently in the wind. Kate checked her watch again. 12.05. Still no sign of her husband.

"That's it Joe, I'm going out there myself," She said, through gritted teeth.

She threw on her jacket and put on slippers, not bothering to waste time trying to untie the tangled mess of her tramping boots. She went outside, taking a moment before storming out into the rain, feeling it lash against her face. It felt as though a dam had burst from above and had hit her squarely on her shoulders. Kate ran around the side of the house, taking care to avoid the deepest of the puddles. She stopped. She could discern a shape directly ahead of her, long and thin, almost entirely pale. Taking careful steps, she slowly made her way towards it. Her foot kicked something up. A wedding ring. Kate was filled with sudden dread that set her teeth chatting uncontrollably and a painful knocking against her skull. Kate could barely keep herself from vomiting. It was her husband. Or, what was left of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Window of Opportunity

James White stood up from the table, facing his audience. Most of them were investors, a few of them were advisors, a couple were representatives of the Costa Rican Government and Preservation Agency. He took a pause, getting a feel of the room's atmosphere. He saw the faces of the room were stern, but the nervousness in their eyes was too hard to miss. And by God, they had a right to be nervous. InGen was about to make the second biggest decision within a space of two years.

"You may be aware," He began, in a calm voice that masked his excitement. "That Ingen is considering re-initiating Plan B."

People shifted slightly with uneasiness. No talking, silence.

 _Good_ , James thought, _I won't have to use the fucking horn this time._

Early in its crisis, InGen (International Genetic Technologies, Inc.) had held private meetings with its investors which almost always ascended to arguments of such a degree that they needed to be silenced with an air horn. As ludicrous and risible as it seemed, that was how it was. How it was at InGen, at least. For the past eighteen weeks, the company was preparing itself for re-initiating Plan B, non-stop around the clock. Employment rates went up. Investors from around the globe wanted to investigate what InGen was doing. When they realised what it was, however, almost half of them turned away. They didn't appreciate what InGen was trying to do. They weren't confident in the company, but James saw InGen's potential and was certain of its success.

After the incident on Isla Nublar, the Costa Rican Government sent military forces to "fix" the problem before the dinosaurs tried to escape to the mainland. The lysine deficiency gene encoded into the animals' DNA was in fact quite unreliable and often failed in many of their animals during the infant developmental stage, which begged the unnerving question of whether they could reach the mainland. The main problem had been to quarantine the velociraptors, as they posed more a threat if one were to escape to the mainland than say a Tyrannosaur, because of the level of intelligence they demonstrated. Sophisticated resonation chambers within the Velociraptor's skull gave the species an advantage to advanced coordinated attack patterns even within proximity of their unaware prey. Their cheetah-clocking speeds of up to sixty miles per hour provided them with more than enough speed to chase down common prey from mice to hadrosaurs. Also, the nine-inch retractable claw upended on either foot, which just like the deadly Cassowary bird could disembowel a man with one strike. And it was beginning to appear that a new generation of velociraptors-probably version 2.7 now if it was computerized-had through behavioural adaption inherited the changing-colour ability of a chameleon. Either that, or a latent enzyme in the genetic code had spontaneously initiated. After the accident in San Diego, InGen had to file for Chapter 11 protection from San Francisco Superior Court for time to compensate and repay the damages caused by an escaped Tyrannosaur. Better a Tyrannosaur than a raptor. Or a pack of raptors, for that matter. The CEO of InGen, White's predecessor, Mr. Ludlaw, was killed by the adult male Tyrannosaur of Site B, leaving Ingen's prospects in complete disarray. It was a dark time for InGen. The company was certain to disband and leave their efforts in vain. But then along came James White, a successful entrepreneur with multiple ties to prosperous businesses, who approached InGen's problems with the same patience and gusto for all his business ventures. It was James White who saved InGen.

 _Who would save InGen,_ He reminded himself.

There was still a lot of work to be done before he could start patting himself on the back. He looked at each of the people in the room, who shared similar anxious expressions, some of them shuffling through the papers entailing the complexity of InGen's plans.

"Now," He continued, "Despite the hardship and adversity the company is facing, the dream here has never wavered. The prospect of accomplishment is what drives this company forward, and what we are attempting here is entirely unique and boundless, so it is unsurprising that we faced inevitable problems from the beginning. However, we have learned from our mistakes. We now know what it takes to maintain these unique animals, matching them with distinguished technologies. The next step is to rekindle Mr. Hammond's dream, to make the impossible possible, and finally, do it right. This is InGen's rebirth."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 A Series of Incidents

Since 1984, strange, misconstrued accidents had begun to grow in number around the East coast of Costa Rica. John Parker Hammond, CEO of InGen at the time, managed to persuade the Costa Rican Coast Guard and keep doors and shutters closed throughout the six years of the park's construction. Nevertheless, the government, suspicious of InGen's involvement in these accidents, and fearful of a potential biological threat, initiated a military operation to generate a controlled demolition of Isla Nublar immediately after the park's demise.

It was about one year later, when the number of suspicious attacks grew exponentially.

At first, they remained within the pockets of villages along the coast, most of them mistaken for lizard, wild dog and other common animal attacks. Victims were treated accordingly, at several of the highest-rated medical centers in the country, without success. Within two hours of being attacked, all adult victims underwent severe convulsions, hematemesis, and died shortly afterward. Adolescent victims died faster. The Costa Rican government went to great lengths to isolate the supposed plague by quarantining a 27-square mile radius as far inland as Monteverde. By 2005, the number of reported attacks peaked at 20,000 a year, and the government had installed a border around the entire country by 2015. It was soon discovered what was the source behind the plague.

In the summer of the following year, a Tyrannosaur was found in Parismina and killed by the locals and special forces, not before it'd eaten and trampled forty unfortunate people. The government was overthrown in 2017 by its own military force, placing the country under a military dictatorship. The new powers that be engaged in war against the animals, sectioning off safe zones in San Jose as well as thirty other smaller zones across the country. Only a few were destroyed by velociraptors, but since then survivors had learned ways to defend themselves against such attacks, installing electric fences and traps. By the end of 2017, over twelve hundred animals were captured and killed.

Scientists in San Jose developed a vaccination grown from cell cultures procured from samples of several species' bacterial and salivation glands in 2018. Distribution was only administered within the Costa Rican borders, until evidence of dinosaurs sighted across the American continent surfaced in early 2019, and the vaccine was dispersed nationwide.

In light of this victory, groups of people across the country began discovering ways to preserve and cook dinosaur meat. This was a major step in of itself, since the nutritional values of dinosaur meat were very high, and soon initiated a revolution in the food industry. InGen tried and failed to claim ownership of the animals, as the superior court overruled in defense against the company's dishonesty, and the needs of malnourished third world countries that would benefit from the meat. James White, CEO of International Genetic Technologies, made a public speech against the slaughter of lawless bioengineered animals, and threatened to sue the court system for injustice against the company. His speech brought many followers, who started campaigns for the protection of InGen's dinosaurs.

In 2023, James White managed to make an appeal for the court to allow his company to recollect their animals, on the promise that he would in return distribute cell cultures for the development of dinosaur meat. The President of the United States passed a law for the protection of dinosaurs, and it seemed man and dinosaur could coexist in harmony.

Or so it seemed.


	4. Chapter 4

Asylum

This is a combination of two ideas, and it's pretty messy atm. I'll make sure to tidy it up later. Hope you enjoy! (Present/past tense is not very consistent lol)

Wheels grind to a halt on crumbled tarmac, causing the unoiled shocks to squeal in protest. I throw open the door, tolerating the torrid heat of the afternoon sun. I take a brief pause to orient my surroundings, making a casual note of the discrepant buildings and barricaded doors and windows built around me. Cars are stripped down to their skeletal metal frames, left by their owners to rust at the sides of the empty streets. Weeds sprout from the neglected pavements, climbing up wall and crumbled masonry as a sign of finally winning its battle beneath the tarmac. Despite the occasional flutter of birds above, there is no movement. Nobody's about. They're probably all inside, grouped in their own tight-knit families, praying for the world's rehabilitation. I suppose that's what they all do.

I slam the door behind me, hearing the resound of its echo for miles around the ominous cityscape. A light breeze from the north tickles the nape of my neck. I amble my way up the road, taking care to jump the curb as I had learned to after earning myself a grazed knee tripping on the same curb about this time yesterday. I approach the nearest doorway with a wood-carved sign nailed across the front; 'Keep Out' it says, in bold letters. Ignoring this warning, I rap loudly on the wood. In wait of a reply, I turn my head slightly, eyeing the empty streets dubiously for any drifters who may've emerged from their makeshift abodes to check out the movement in the area. To my satisfaction, nobody is about.

I turn back to the door and knock again; this time, it is longer and louder. My knuckles flush red angry from abrasion against the roughness of the wood. This time, I hear booted footsteps shuffle up to the door, followed by the clink of a metal latch as it is unlocked from the doorframe. The door opens with a creak and catches on a rusted pin chained to the door. A tall old man with fraying grey hair and crinkled blue eyes answers it, his dry lips fixed in a permanent frown.

"What?" He asks in a gruff, unpleasant voice.

"It's okay, George, it's me, Alex." I say.

"I don't know an Alex." George grumbles in English, although I catch a slight insincerity in his voice.

"Come on, George, of course you do. Now let me in, I have the elodea as promised."

With a reluctant growl, George unhooks the door pin and steps aside. I enter, then give George a friendly slap on the shoulder. Despite being sixty-three, George is tough as nails, and his body has not yet failed its fight with old age. He returns me a scornful look, as a warning not to provoke him.

The inside of the house is dark and musty. I walk down the hallway, feeling the murky depths of shadow immerse me. The waft of human despondency lingers in the air-a familiar smell amongst these quiet makeshift homes. Each step takes me closer to the heart of this aroma, where the stench of lost hope grows most prominent, and where the light of the day is blocked by square strips of cardboard taped over the windows.

Standing there to greet me in the living room is Amelia, George's wife, thin and her wrinkled skin pale, however her face seems to glow in happiness-an interesting comparison to her stocky, surly husband.

"Oh hello, Nicholas, how very nice to see you."

"Uh-" I start, but George interrupts me.

"Amelia, you old goose, this is Alex. Alex, the new 'wild man'," He pronounces the words in an almost mocking tone.

The term 'Wild man' is used to describe a person who ventures out into the woods to gather supplies for a person or members of a family. We dare to risk our lives for these people, hence the term 'wild'; as in crazy. It is a rather condescending epithet, seeing that we are the only volunteers of the human race who are willing to help our species to survive through these dark times.

Amelia's smile withers. "Alex? I don't think I know an Alex."

"Oh for Heaven's sake, woman! He's the new wild man. He will replace Nicholas, as we agreed yesterday. Sometimes it's like talking to a brick wall."

Amelia gives him a hurtful look; something that I recognise to be one she shares more frequently with George; however quickly replaces it with a warm-hearted smile directed towards me.

"Well, ah...Alex, why don't you come in and-"

"He is here to trade, Amelia, not to indulge himself in our comfort."

Amelia puts her hands on her hips. "Well, speak for yourself, George! The least we can have right now is a house guest, after all these years..." Her voice trails off in the shadows.

"Things have changed, Amelia-"

"No, nothing's changed, George. Nothing's changed for fifteen years. I'm surprised we've even been married that long! Sometimes I think they're the reason we're still together. It's all the same out there, and everyone's hiding," She points towards the barred windows, her cracked nimble fingers trembling slightly.

"Yes, and for good reason. You know what's out there, Amelia. Don't make me remind you of Boscanavia."

"How could I forget, George? But that's not the point-"

"It's got everything to do with the point. It is dangerous out there. He will not be staying, and that's final."

The elderly couple stand there for another five seconds of tense silence, before I speak up. "I've got something other than elodea," I say. "D'you want to see it?"

"What?" George grunts, making me feel childish for asking.

"Oh for heaven's sake George!" Amelia exclaims. She turns to me. "Come on, show us what you got."

Perhaps at first I was mistaken for the smell of despondency in the house earlier-Amelia seems very optimistic, whereas her surly husband, George, is still anxious about the idea of leaving the house. I met them both yesterday, taking the place of their last wild man, Nicholas, who'd apparently died out in the eastern part of the wilderness, on a search for blackberries. I hadn't heard of him before. But even if I knew him, I wouldn't have cared much either.

Choosing to take the job already puts you at countless life-threatening risks. As a wild man, you are paid with a percentage of the resources you gather for your employers, depending on the agreement of exchange. Conventionally, you must exceed a certain number of items in a hoard to earn payment, although it is not uncommon for a wild man to be paid on every item collected from the wilderness.

Nonetheless, there are no restrictions or rules as a wild man. Trading with the wrong wild man could resolve you to starve as one of incompetence may be robbed of gathered resources by another wild man, or he may demand for unreasonable exchanges between items.

As an honest man, I am true to my word, and I bargain at a fair price. I have never lied nor cheated another human being, nor have I hindered any opportunities to gather resources. I am one of those few people who still believe in survival as a species-regardless of our decrease in numbers of population.

To hear interest from Amelia is gratifying, as she seems to be one of those hearty people who'd much rather spend her time in the company of others than shut herself out from the world. I have a habit of warming up quickly to people like her-people who are extremely hard to come by these days.

I lead Amelia outside, into the dry humid air, with George following behind, to my aquamarine-blue Ford Ute, with something large mounted on the rear, covered with a pasty-yellow tarpaulin. It exceeds the height of the roof, even as it lies on its side, dominating most of the space.

"I have a bad feeling about this," George mutters, standing in the doorway. "I'm waiting back here."

Neither Amelia nor I coerce with him.

I reach over and undo the latches holding the tarp in place, then slacken the rope and lift it gently, uncovering the stubble head first, the beak-like mouth, a dull black reptilian eye, then the thick scaly neck, the front two feet and thighs, the faded green bulb of its belly, and finally the hind legs and thick muscular tail. A young male stegosaurus. Overall, the creature is about five metres long, waist height, having not yet grown its adultery plates along its back-the famous, science-baffling feature of this creature's species.

"Oh goodness!" Amelia gasps, jumping back in fright.

George mutters uneasily, "How the hell did you get it, boy?"

I incline my head modestly.

"Dexter 300 .45 calibre. I came across traders up in the north basin. Said they would discount the price for a tank of fuel."

I nod to the seven light-coloured fuel tanks strapped to the far side of the trailer, each able to contain six litres of diesel oil. As a wild man, I must keep a sustainable amount of fuel to be able to reach the furthest ends of the wilderness.

"I thought it would come in handy if I find myself surrounded by a pack of raptors." I add, although I don't need to justify why I carry a hunting rifle around with me. It is for my own safety out in the wilderness. If George and Amelia have a problem with that, then they can find somebody else as their Wildman.

"Where on earth did you find it?" Amelia asks.

"Alone, in a clearing on the northern ridge, drinking from a clear spring. Don't worry, I tested the water-one hundred percent clean. And I made sure to quickly remove the bullet."

I grab a hold of the thick flaccid folds of skin of the dead animal's neck and gently pull them back to show Amelia and George the entry wound of my bullet. Amelia raises her eyebrows and nods, impressed. George shows no interest to come forward and have a look himself. The skin is tough and pebbled, like a reptile, but around the wound it is soft and spongy, the blood is dark red and mottled.

"The thing's probably loaded with disease." George calls from the doorway.

I shake my head. "I checked. Only small traces of lichen fungus, but that'll easily cook off."

George coughs a loud "ahem" of disbelief.

"Cook off?" He booms, "You expect us to _eat_ the thing? I sure as hell will not eat a wild animal!"

"Have you tried dinosaur meat before, George?" I ask.

The old man returns me a look that can only mean one thing: "Don't get smart with me, boy." It said. Sure, George is afraid of change-at least that much is evident. According to his wife, Amelia, he has lost his entire faith in humanity, which I have now come to realise that that familiar stench of human despair is more than likely originating from him.

But, almost expectedly, Amelia sticks up for me.

"Now listen here George, Nicholas has brought us a rather...generous amount of food, and we ought to respect his audacity to bring us different, exciting things. Why don't you give it a chance and try something new for a change?"

I suppress the urge to correct her. It would be very disrespectful of me to do that. Counterproductive too, since she's sticking up for me. Also, I want to hear what George has to say.

"A change, Amelia? A change? What we need right now is safety. We need to stay alive and healthy - not risk our own lives over some dangerous, unknown food."

Amelia laughs; a sound that obviously bothers George a great deal.

"No George, living like this-hiding away from the world-is putting our lives at risk. It is killing us, George! What do you think made humanity as strong as it was? Because it certainly wasn't hiding!"

George suddenly explodes into a coughing fit. "Enough!" He cries, suppressing a cough, "I'm not eating it, and that's final."

Before his wife can reply, he storms back into the house, clearing his throat noisily.

The old woman turns to me. The hard lines of her mouth are crinkled upward in a congenial smile.

"Don't mind him, Nicholas. Here, why don't I help you cook it?"

In no more than ten minutes, we have the animal skinned, gutted and butchered, having left the head and slippery innards aside. Chunks of the tail and torso are cooking in boiling water over the electric stove, with pieces of diced homegrown potato Amelia has grown in her backyard. The meat discharges a strong smell crossed between chicken and fish that smokes out the entire kitchen. I wonder briefly whether it will reach its way to George and summon him to do something about it. The soft pink flesh reminds me a lot of crab meat; a delicacy I favour for its sweet taste alone; and I wonder whether dinosaur meat-stegosaur meat rather-will taste similarly to crab meat, although looks can be deceiving when it comes to food.

"Smells good," I say, over the boiling pot.

Amelia looks up from chopping carrots and nods in agreement.

"It'll taste just like crocodile," She says, returning to the carrots.

"I haven't tasted crocodile before," I reply.

"Oh, it's just like chicken and fish," She says, not looking up from her work. "Alligator is a bit sweeter. Weren't they related to ah, dinosaurs?" She asks.

"Yes," I answer, "They were related. Contrarily, dinosaurs are believed to be more closely related to birds than reptiles, ever since the recent evidence of specimens evolving feathers in place of scales. You have two different sides of opinion."

"And whose side are you on?"

"Birds. I suppose it's because they moved-I mean, move faster than your common reptile. A bull crocodile and the Komodo Dragon of Indonesia can outrun a man, but birds overall have an advantage in speed and more complex forms of communication.

"Also, I think we have established that dinosaurs-the raptors in particular-can communicate at merit sophisticated levels we could never predict from assuming they were common relatives of the reptile. Birds have a more sophisticated way of communicating than reptiles, hence the theory they were relatives of birds."

"Well, you've done your research. Were you a scientist before ah, it happened?"

"I was a graduate at Cambridge. Got a degree in palaeontology. I moved to Ohio afterwards."

"Any family?"

"Wife and daughter. They were both killed in the... "

"I'm sorry. D'you mind if I ask of their names?"

"Lucy and Danielle. I met Lucy while I was at Cambridge. She was taking a degree in palaeobotany; the study of fossilized plants. We married in late December six years ago in Ohio, and bought a house there. We had Danielle two years after that."

I haven't talked about Lucy or Danielle with anybody since the accident, but it feels relieving to finally talk about it with someone. Keeping it all inside makes me feel afraid that I will forget them. I feel tears brimming, but I blink my eyes to force them away.

"So, when did you decide to become a-ah... a helper?" Amelia asks.

"About two years ago, early June. I came across the idea when I talked with a few others who were helping clean up the streets. At the time, I was still recovering from the loss of my wife and Danielle, but I figured that helping others would keep my mind off things."

"I'd call that doing the right thing for the wrong reasons," Amelia says, with a sympathetic frown. "You should always be thinking of your family before you do something, as they are more important than anything else. I know how it feels to lose someone you love and feel the need to shut them out so they won't bother you every second of every day."

"You have family other than George?" I ask.

"Yes," Amelia says, throwing the chopped carrots into the pot and giving it a stir, "Though it may be obvious to you, George and I are grandparents. Two beautiful girls, Diana and Lindsey. We only had the one son, Mitchell. They moved to the east coast, to join a group of survivors there. They write every weekend."

"They write?" I ask, puzzled.

Ever since the world flipped on its head, all telecommunications were cut by the US government to prevent the risk of interception. Because of this I assumed that all postage systems were abolished as well. Also, it wouldn't be so convenient if we had a postman moving about, crossing the wilderness, delivering letters between settlements, at risk of being eaten by killer dinosaurs.

"Yes," she explains, "there's a mail system underground, where they transfer cargo and letters between places using the abandoned subway route. Not everyone knows about it, but George and I were neighbours with the people who came up with the idea, and they came and asked if we needed to contact someone. And if you need to contact someone," She adds, leaning close. "I'll be more than willing to help deliver any messages."

"That's fine."

As this conversation develops, I am beginning to suspect that things in this settlement are not as divided as I once thought. A mail system underground? Assuming Amelia is telling the truth-and I'm positive she is-my perception of human beings having devolved into fear and segregation may well be mistaken. Is there, perhaps, a revolution in our midst?

The idea catches me slightly hopeful, and I allow it to fill me, however I also make sure to keep in mind that if we are to regain our control over the planet, it will take a lot more than a few little communities of only a few hundred inhabitants, which are all separated by dangerous lands. We'd need a much larger force to overcome our much stronger adversaries. That, and a bit of luck.

"That's...something..." I murmur, impressed. Though I don't think she hears me.

"Pardon, did you say something?" She asks, tending to the pot.

She throws in parsley leaves and a variety of dried nuts, to try bring out the flavour of the stegosaur meat.

"No, nothing," I reply.

The meat turns out a darker pink and annoyingly sticks in between my teeth. It reminds me of the numerous failed attempts at cooking steak, where I'd managed to undercook the meat and render it too chewy to eat. My wife Lucy would scold me in front of our daughter Danielle, who's mouth would curl upward at the edges and giggle in amusement at my error. But I don't mean to depreciate Amelia's cooking. This is her first attempt at a stegosaurus, and with that in mind, it isn't bad at all.

On a more positive note, it does in fact taste like a mixture of chicken and fish, and Amelia says it tastes milder than the meat of crocodile, even though the prehistoric delicacy is already quite pungent.

We finish later in the afternoon. Between us, we exchange information; Amelia tells me of the little subway mail system, and I explain more about dinosaurs. I learn the community is posted only a few blocks away, centred in the city mall, several stories underground and adjacent to the subway. I'm not yet familiar with this town, but through visiting so many in my time as a wild man, I've come to notice a common similarity between them in terms of the geographical placement of buildings, and I needn't bother Amelia for a map.

I share with her my knowledge of dinosaurs; keeping it simple and brief and as interesting as I can; allowing her the opportunity to chip in little bits here and there about her previous encounters with the prehistoric beasts. Amelia tells me of the time when George and she first came face-to-face with a dinosaur, when they were crossing the Golden Gate bridge to escape a storm of gigantic agitated prehistoric bugs-which I later clarified to be a mixture of Jurassic and Cretaceous insects-when they had to swerve to avoid colliding with a lone velociraptor, which snarled uselessly at the oncoming swarm. From there George had got out of the car and ushered the reluctant juvenile into the rear seat, had to tuck in its tail to prevent it getting caught in the doorway, before jumping back into the driver's seat and floored the accelerator.

"When we got back to safety we released him into the wild," Amelia says, withholding a laugh. "Poor fella. You should've seen the look on his little face...the car must've spooked him. But my, he was magnificent. Oh, you should have seen the bright orange plumage along his back..."

Her retelling of the event seems to illustrate George as a selfless hero, willing to sacrifice a few precious seconds to save a stubborn raptor from death, leaving me to wonder what happened to make him as sceptical and morose as he is today.

"So what happened at Boscanavia?" I ask, taking a quick sip of herbal tea Amelia has just prepared for me.

It is warm and soothing-the exact opposite of the expression that crosses Amelia's face. She gives a feeble cough to clear her throat and pauses, allowing herself time to think about her reply, before commencing with a sigh, "...we were attacked."

There's a sincerity in her voice that sounds almost completely alien to her normally cheerful, hearty character.

The kitchen seems to darken, as if someone has dimmed the lights.

"Attacked? By what, Amelia?" I gasp.

Amelia looks back in the direction of the stairs, making sure George isn't standing there, listening. Her eyes are dark and wide and intense with fear. I feel a sudden coldness descend upon the room. She leans forward, and whispers by my ear, "A raptor."

Her words are still ringing in my one ear when she unexpectedly lifts the sleeve of her loose green t-shirt to reveal an ugly purple scar that runs from the right shoulder, down her arm and tapers at the tip of her elbow. It is nothing I haven't seen before; however, it is a sight I never get used to. Her scar reminds me of the many attacks I've seen on unfortunate victims of predatory dinosaurs. Velociraptors, in particular. I try hard not to remember the bloody mangled corpses lying in the streets, decaying in the harsh heat of the sun, ripped open at the stomach and their mouths open wide in their last terrified screams. Raptor attacks are vicious and brutal. They kill even when they're not hungry, which is what makes them so different to the rest of the dinosaurs. You can see in that impassive cold-blooded stare what sort of purebred killer lurks beneath that strikingly beautiful plumage. Raptor attacks are brutal. You are lucky if you survive one.

"That's not all," Amelia says, pushing back from her chair and standing up.

Amelia lifts the hem of her shirt, revealing a horrifying set of red-angry three-clawed slashes, starting from underneath her armpit and ending in a deep jagged line at her hip-bone.

She lets it fall and leans into her chair, her grey eyes soften.

"George and I," She continues, with a hint of regret perceivable in her voice, "George and I... we weren't the stay-at-home type of people. We were always on an adventure...always getting into trouble." She gives a laugh-the kind of bitter-sweet laugh that many give when retelling a story-a laugh that lingers for a while in the air afterwards. I begin to feel the darkness lift from the room as a surge of sunlight seeps through a gap in the cardboard window.

Amelia continues, "Back then, I hadn't begun to think what of us when we were too old and frail to carry on the way we were, and when we did, things became difficult, especially in our relationship. Anyway, we were young. We decided to help the community to get back on its feet, by helping to remove the insects from our neighbouring city, Ridgemont, just through the east mountain. And we were doing very well. By the season's end we had almost completely cleared the streets of dinosaurs."

She pauses to sip her tea.

"Ridgemont's mayor even offered us a place to stay near his own mansion, to show his appreciation for our work. We declined, of course. We wanted to stay out here in our beloved town. So, after the Fall, we decided to head back. And that's when it happened."

Her eyes flicker to her arm and she caresses it with a gentle hand. She takes another sip from her tea with fingers slightly trembling.

"We were ambushed. There were five of them-man-sized, vicious creatures with green and brown stripes that attacked us when we were almost through Ridgemont pass. They came from the side, swooping in like big birds do when they chase prey. One of them jumped up on the bonnet, and George slammed on the brakes, sending it flying off to the ground. Another jumped onto the roof, and a third smashed its head in through the side window, showering us with glass.

"At this point, George had put us into gear and was flooring the accelerator, but the one through the window had stuck its arm through and clawed me. We managed to escape, but we had to get me to the hospital."

Like many reptiles, velociraptors contain bacteria in their teeth that can kill you even if you manage to escape an attack. Once inside the bloodstream, these bacteria will attack blood cells and cause poisoning throughout the body. And these bacteria do not only exist on the teeth but also their claws, as they use them to grip onto prey, thus catching traces from the decaying flesh and skin of previous victims. Soon after the waves of plague, chemists discovered the use of an extensively developed antidote designed to cure these common injuries. If not treated, the patient would slip into a mass of sudden convulsions, and die within a few short minutes without proper treatment.

"So they put you on Configuration X?" I ask of her.

Amelia frowns as she tries to remember. Configuration X was the name the miracle scientists called their antidote. Apparently, it altered a patient's genetic code, by modifying the white blood cells to change its rate of reactivity to the poison, and enhanced the strength and effectiveness of natural antibodies and antitoxins that may have otherwise been compromised by the bacteria. Despite the hopeful reports, I never trusted scientists after the creation of dinosaurs; an irony I find amusing at times, however more severe at others. Although at the pinnacle of their discovery, when things seemed to be finally tipping back in our favour, there came the second wave of the plague, shortly followed by the third. This major set-back sent the human race spinning out of control in a triple-whammy fashion; government systems were failing, world peace was disintegrating, and people were dying by the thousands every day, until where we are now; a scatter of a few hundred million people all over the globe, numbers climbing and falling gradually as the years pass.

"Yes," She says finally, the severity returning to her voice, "I recall that being the name of what they gave me. Weird stuff. It made my brain go all fuzzy and what I could remember most of all was the sharp, metallic taste soon after they administered it. I was fine after a couple of days, but I had to stay for a week. They said it was to make sure my body was accepting the antidote. But I tell you what, now that I think about it, I suspect they were keeping something from me."

"How d'you mean?"

"Well for one thing, they were very secretive about their methods - they even insisted that George leave the room. They put me on gas soon after the injection, so I wasn't aware of how they monitored me, or any of their processes. Perhaps they weren't sure it would work."

"Yeah maybe," Is all I can say.


End file.
